Small Acts of Sex and Electricity. Lise Haines

toward the center as if I were trying to get a tiny silver ball into the dip of a child’s game. Watching it come to rest, I realized I had become awkward with him.

      —What are you doing? he laughed.

      —Balancing.

      I said something about the beach being empty. Not a dog out.

      Nearly everyone along the row of beach houses had a dog; at least it seemed that way when they were driving the non-dog owners insane. Every now and then the strays. The fog had moved out to the islands. I became aware of pelicans diving into the ocean. A whole division of them climbing and bombing in straight vertical lines.

      —Look.

      But he was looking.

      —I’m not much of a help, he said. I’ll get with it.

      I forgot that I still had the food extended toward him until I felt the plate drop from my hands.

      Trader lifted his head from the spot where he had curled, expressed little interest. Mike helped me pick up the food. He briefly took one of my hands. I felt the pressure of his ring against my bones.

      He leaned into me, put his mouth next to my ear, and said:

      —You’re doing that thing.

      —What thing? I asked.

      —Search and rescue.

      —Maybe.

      He whispered:

      —She wouldn’t rescue you.

      We broke apart before Livvy started down the stairs. She seated herself in front of my laptop and refreshed the screen. I realized that she was looking at the men I had once spent hours poring over, reading through heights and weights and drinking habits. She smiled to herself and pulled the lid down so the screen went cold and then she went into the kitchen. Mona appeared and slumped on the couch. Mike gave her a kiss and stepped onto the deck. I joined Mona.

      —I wonder what it feels like to not be alive, she said.

      —There are theories on that, Mona.

      —I mean, before you’re in your mom’s belly, just before you get inside.

      —Ah.

      —I wonder what that’s like, she said.

      —Yeah, me too.

      Mike stood with his feet far apart, which gave him the appearance of stability, a lowered center of gravity. He had had an affair years ago, which Jane said he mostly regretted. She said he’d changed after that. Focused more intensely on his work. Restrained, she called him. I sometimes think she missed his wilder self. But it was hard to sort out. He had never changed the way he was with me.

      His pants and jacket flapped against his body as he looked toward the harbor. It was Wet Wednesday: the sailboats would be racing. I don’t believe he was talking to me but I thought I heard him say something.

      But then I’ve caught his voice before, when he wasn’t around. It’s come through Jane in their dark living room back in Boston. If she called, it was after her family had gone to sleep. She’d have a sudden urge to read a paragraph from one of his old letters to me. Or she’d talk about the film he was working on or what they’d said over dinner. It felt as if she were trying to convince herself of something. I pictured her sitting on the couch in her robe, gazing at her own reflection in the glass doors that lead out to their backyard. Staring long enough for a natural split to occur. I imagine she saw the part of herself capable of rolling the sliders back and taking off out the side gate, leaving her sandals where she’d stepped out of them. Then she’d let her eyes go weary and see the woman who was fixed there, pairing and folding the girls’ socks as we talked.

      Maybe she really did want my seminomadic life.

      Once, driving through central Illinois, on the lookout for a motel with air conditioning, I found a small circus in an open field. The tent had so many holes the lights beamed from it like bright worms in the dark. Parking my car, I stepped into the flight of frantic insects. The show was half over. Many of the benches were empty, the toys unsold.

      The tent fluttered, and the smell of overcooked hot dogs rose into the air. It was the knife-thrower and his slender redheaded assistant who intrigued me. She was fastened to a huge crimson wheel at the ankles, wrists, and waist. The man gave the wheel a mighty crank. The woman spun faster and faster until she became nothing more than a bull’s-eye. The audience gasped each time he threw a knife at the wheel. When it came to rest, she was silhouetted with knives—one blade even pinned the edge of her dress. He released her and they kissed.